


World's Finest

by 8sword



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alfred!Bobby, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Batman!Castiel, F/M, Kid Fic, Lois Lane!Dean, M/M, daddy!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still remembers Lydia shooting him a pained look. "You're making this harder than it needs to be," she'd said quietly, and he'd snapped, "I think it needs to be pretty damn hard! You're saying you want to--to swoop out of the solar system and go all E.T. on us!"</p><p>Because it was "us," now. Because, yeah, he can see why an ass-kicking superheroine would dump his Earthling ass to go find her own people, but now there's Emma. </p><p>Now there's their kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vilupe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilupe/gifts).



> Gratuitous SPN!DC Universe fusion. Inspired by the usual culprit, loversforylycanthropes, whose initial and brilliant headcanon I have cannibalized. Also by sniperdean, whose tremendous Red Hood!Dean AUs make my world a better place.

 

* * *

 

 

            "Six days," Cas says dryly. "You can't stay out of trouble for six days, Dean."

            "Uh, hello?" Dean gestures to the eight-year-old tucked under his arm. The eight-year-old who had been _floating between the barn rafters_ just fifteen minutes ago. She'd been dangerously close to bobbing out the huge loft window into the wide blue sky before Dean heard her scream and bolted up the rickety old ladder to grab her. "It's not exactly me causing the trouble this time."

            Emma shoots him an angry, betrayed look. It might be more effective if her eyes weren't still so wide with alarm, or if he couldn't feel her heart thudding hard against his arm where it's wrapped around her.

            "Hey," he says soothingly. "Hey, sweetheart, we're good, okay? Cas's here, okay?"

            Emma's eyes flick back down to Cas. He's climbing up the same ladder Dean had scrambled up half an hour ago, albeit more slowly, digging in his back pocket as he goes.

            Dean cranes his neck forward, over the edge of the loft as far as he's able without letting go of Emma. "Dude, what're you trying to find, China?"

            Cas glares up at him, his _stop while you're ahead_ glare. "Emma, please pinch your father for me."

            Emma pinches him. Dean grins down at her. A huge weight's been lifted now that Cas is here; he practically feels like he could float up to the ceiling himself. Emma smiles back, a little reluctantly.

            Then her eyes widen again as her feet start to drift upward like some invisible rope is trying to pull her into the air by her ankles.

            "Hey hey hey!" Dean shouts. He scrambles to readjust his hold on her, and Emma scrabbles at him in return. Both their eyes are wide, hearts pounding.

            Then a second pair of arms comes around Emma from behind, one diagonally firm across her front and the other handing Dean a spool of zip line cable.

            "Put those Boy Scout skills to good use," Cas's voice says. It's gravelly and implacable as always, into Dean's ear where he's ducked his head close to Emma to hold her tight, and that tight, panicked weight resettles, redistributes itself inside Dean, making it easier to breathe.

            He scrambles with the zip-line, gets one end tied around Emma's wrist. The other end gets knotted to one of the old half-rusted hooks in the wall where John's spare tools used to hang. It's not perfect, but at least now he won't be freaking out that if he somehow loses hold of Emma she'll sail out into the Wild Blue Yonder and never be seen again.

            Emma looks relieved, too, his baby girl, her hands already twisting around to grip the zip line like it's the tug-of-war rope from her school Field Day contest last year. It has Dean saying, "We've got you. We've got you, baby," again, uselessly, even though she knows that, they all know that, and he smoothes a hand down her head, cups it tight. She's so small, his kid, her head still small enough that he feels like he's dwarfing it in his hand, but he knows what this means, or at least has a good idea, and suddenly amid all the sick anxiety in his gut there's hot, hot anger because it wasn't fair for Lydia to leave him with this. To leave _Emma_ with this. Even if she thought that being only half Kryptonian would save Emma from developing the powers she had, that she--

            "What happened?"

            Dean looks up. Cas has settled back on his haunches, one hand still cupped around Emma's elbow like he doesn't trust his zip line to hold (of course he doesn't; Cas doesn't trust anything), and he's looking at Emma.

            Emma hiccups. "I--I was just _playing_!" Her voice is plaintive like she thinks she's going to be in trouble, like this was her fault. Dean makes wordless soothing noises again, strokes her hair. "And I was trying to get into the loft because my scrunchie landed up here and Dad told me not to move the ladder when he's not here and I didn't! Dad, I didn't!"

            "I know you didn't, Em." Dean's still stroking her hair; he looks up at Cas, who's listening intently. "What happened then?"

            "I just--was up!" she says. "I couldn't--I wasn't--"

            She breaks off. Her little hand grips a handful of Dean's jeans where he's got his legs crossed Indian-style around her. He holds onto it, and looks at Cas.

            "Emma," Cas says. "It sounds like when you wanted to get up into the loft, your body wanted to help you get there. Does that sound right?"

            Emma sniffles. She has her face hidden in Dean's shirt, and Dean can still feel the pull of that invisible force trying to pull her up. "Yes," comes the muffled reply.

            "What about," Cas says, "if you ask your body to help you come down?"

            "It _won't_!"

            "Have you tried?" Cas says.

            Dean can practically feel the petulance in Emma's body. "No..."

            "Then you need to try." Cas's voice brooks no protest, scared or not. Dean's hands immediately tighten around Emma as he feels her pull back slightly. She has her eyes squeezed shut, and it would be adorable if he didn't feel like he was a second away from puking his guts all over the floor.

            They sit there for a moment, as Emma strains like she's trying to crack a nut with her teeth. Dean doesn't feel one ounce of difference in how hard her body's trying to float upward against the restraints of his arms and the zip line. He can tell Emma knows it, too, because her mouth's starting to tremble, tears squeezing free of the corners of her eyes.

            His heart's fucking breaking.

            "Em," he says. "Em," again, and brings her forehead down to his. "Why don't you try telling your body _please_?"

            Emma's eyes pop open. She blinks at him for a moment, her mouth moving soundlessly, and then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she falls into his lap. Gravity-bound again.

            "Thank fuck," Dean breathes. He squeezes her tight.

            Emma doesn't even pull her usual "Oooh! Daddy said a bad word!" She just grips him back.

            Cas rocks back on his knees and stands to remove the zip line from the hook.

 

\- o -

 

            When they walk out of the barn, Emma's still clinging tight to Dean with her arms and legs wrapped around him like some sort of octo-monkey. And a familiar blonde kid's spinning around on the tire swing near the edge of the pasture.

            Dean glances toward Cas, blowing some of Emma's hair out of his face. "Seriously? You brought Claire?"

            Cas casts him a _seriously?_ look of his own. "Dean, you called me and said, _I need you here right the fuck now._ I didn't think I had time to arrange a babysitter."

            Dean sort of looks at him for a moment, not sure whether to glower or mumble _thanks_. Because he doesn't really know who to turn to, at times like this. His dad'd probably as soon keel over of a heart attack if he walked in and saw his (faux) grandkid pulling a Sabrina the Teenage Witch. His parents have yet to find out who--what?--Lydia really was, and if Dean has his way they never will, but Cas knows, and Dean doesn't have to explain anything to him because fuck, Cas probably knows more about Kryptonians than Dean does. Could probably give Dean some sort of alien-raising manual, if he asked for it.

            His arms tighten around Emma, unconsciously. Then he leans forward automatically as Emma turns her head and pushes up in his arms to hiss in his ear. " _Dad_. Mr. Cas said a bad word."

            Dean grins.

            "Ah," says Cas, because apparently he has bat-ears to go with the costume, "but I was repeating something your father said, so it doesn't count."

            Emma twists around on Dean's arm to look at him, one of her arms still slung around Dean's neck. Her pointy elbow digs into his collarbone. "Does that mean I can say them, too?"

            " _No_ ," Dean says, and sets her down. She sucks in a breath and automatically grabs his leg, Death Hugging it for a moment before her hands slowly unclench from his jeans.

            She takes a step back, one hand curling fingers into his belt loop. "What if it happens again?" she whispers.

            "Has it happened before?"

            "No!" She throws an indignant look up at him. "I would've told you!"

            There goes that heart-cracking-open feeling again. But Dean doesn't get a chance to say anything, because feet are pounding up to them. Claire, in all her tutu-ed glory. Dean gets the feeling she may have been pulled out of her ballet class early, and he feels guilty and grateful to Cas all over again. He knows Cas's relationship with his niece, little as he speaks of it, is a little rockier than he'd like, and dragging her out of her class probably wasn't a good way of improving that.

            "Emma!" Claire says, as imperious as could be expected of a girl growing up the ward of a billionaire. "Come push me on the swing!"

            Emma's hidden her face in Dean's leg again. "I don't wanna push you. "

            "Actually," Cas says. "I believe it is Claire's turn to push you, after last time."

            Claire turns a Bitchface on Cas. But Emma perks up, letting a little go of Dean's jeans. "Yeah!"

            "It's a new year," Claire says. "We start turns over again, there's no rollover!"

            Emma wilts. Puts her face back in Dean's jeans again.

            "Claire."

            Claire glares at Cas.

            "Hey, I got an idea," Dean says. "How 'bout you two go in the house with Grandma Mary, huh, Em? Those cookies should be almost done."

            Emma looks up at him. Her expression is pleading; he's not sure whether it's a _Don't let go of me_ or a _Don't make me play with Claire, she's a meanie-face_ , but either way, it makes him sigh. "Fine," he says, and lifts her up. "Let's go in together."

            He glances over at Cas. Says, a little awkwardly, "You guys are welcome to come in, too, y'know."

            "I hadn't dreamed otherwise," says Cas, and ushers Claire ahead of him up the steps to Dean's parents' porch.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who read the first installment! This is just more gratuitous ficcing....don't expect much plot in this 'verse. :3

* * *

 

            "Not that we mind having surprise guests," John says, in a tone that says the exact opposite, "but what's the occasion?"

            Mary shoots him a Look as the girls scamper past them into the kitchen. But Cas, as usual, is unfazed. "I'm investigating a site for a new production plant," he says. "I thought I would stop by while I was in the neighborhood. You're looking wonderful, Mrs. Winchester."

            He leans in to hug her, pressing a courteous kiss to her cheek. Dean watches, always sort of amazed by how tactile Cas is when he's being Cas Novak, Billionaire. He's such an Ice King when he's Batman that it never stops feeling weird to see him like this, like watching a statue that suddenly starts to move.

            "Go on, you," Mary says, pleased. Then she pulls back. "Oh, I've probably gone and gotten flour on your nice suit--"

            "I'm already covered in hay from assisting Dean." Cas pulls back and looks down at himself. There's bits of hay stuck to his front and his trouser legs from climbing into the loft, and a few in his hair. "I don't think the fabric will suffer too greatly from pastry ingredients."

            "Then you might as well come in here and help me make another batch of cookies, since the girls are going to eat them all." Mary raises her voice for the last bit, as Emma and Claire are racing back out of the kitchen with chocolate chip cookies sticking from their mouths. Claire has an extra cookie in each hand, and Emma's holding two sloshing glasses of milk.

            "I better not find any milk spilled on the carpet!" John shouts after them as they dart past the adults into the living room.

            Emma stops short, a guilt-stricken look racing onto her face. Her wide eyes shoot to Dean, nervous.

            Then Claire's swallowing her cookie and saying, with the self-assured wit that only a very spoiled child can muster, "What'll you do, _cry_ over it?"

            Jesus, it's like she's channeling Sam. Dean watches, unsure if he's going to need to intercede.  But John doesn't say anything. He doesn't go stormy and flashing-eyed the way he always did when Sam sassed him. He just stares at Claire for a minute before sitting down on the couch and picking up the remote and turning on the TV.

            He'll be ignoring them for the rest of the night, then.

            Claire rolls her eyes. Grab Emma's arm and drags her out the front door, down the porch steps into the front yard, where Dean can hear their little feet pounding across the dirt driveway. Out of step at first, one pair lagging behind the first, and then in unison, indistinguishable from one another, until they fade from earshot.

            "Dean," Cas says.

            "Dean," he says when no response is forthcoming.

            Dean drags his attention back to him. Back to Cas's expectant eyes and Mary's ever-concerned ones.

            "Yeah," he says. Clears his throat. "How can we help with dinner, Mary?"

 

\- o-

 

            Lydia never planned to hang up the cape after Emma was born. It never even came up as an option, the idea that she would put anything before that red and blue costume and the people she saved in it, and if Dean ever resented that, he never said it.

            But the first time he gets kidnapped after Lydia leaves Earth, he wonders how he could ever have been stupid enough to think that things would be able to keep going on as usual once Emma was born. Nothing's changed, but everything has. He's still Metropolis' favorite Reporter Hostage, because it wasn't like Superwoman had left the city's villains a memo saying she'd be light-years away for an unspecified period of time, please water her plants and leave her favorite Boy Reporter be, thanks.

            The being-tricked-into-a-trap-and-tied-up-in-a-tank-slowly-filling-with-water isn't new, and nor are the stupid nickel handcuffs that dickwad Walker's been using ever since he found out cheap metal makes Dean break out in hives. What is new is the panic attack seconds from exploding inside his lungs because Emma's at daycare and it's got to be past six by now and the teacher's probably left like fifty messages on his phone asking where the heck he is and _Dean's never going to get them_.

            Instead he's going to die. He's going to die, right fucking here, with icy sewage water lapping his chin and his fingers too numb too feel and God knows when anyone will ever find him.

            If anyone will ever find him.

            It's not new to him, imagining how people will react to his death. Between all the times Gordon's trapped him, and Azazel and Lilith and Eve, and that one really weird time with Philippe LeChat, he's had lots of time to imagine the Winchesters' reactions when someone knocks on their door to tell them their adopted son's finally gotten himself killed. Lots of time to imagine John's gruff, angry expression, the way he'll grunt, _Boy should've listened to me_ , because he told Dean so many fucking times that he was going to get himself killed in Metropolis, chasing stories the way he did.

            Lots of time to imagine Mary's wide, sad eyes, the way her hand will come up to her mouth, trembling. The way her fingers will shake as she picks up the phone to call Sam, how she'll already be crying by the time he picks up. How Sam's voice will crack on the other end of the line, go pissed and heartbroken at the same time, that strange combination of Mary's soft and John's hard that he's always been.

            What Dean never imagined any of those times was the reaction of a kid. Of the baby girl left behind at the daycare in Metropolis who'd never get the chance to know him enough to miss him. Who'd be picked up by a crying Mary and a stone-faced John not aware of what kind of life her dad had abandoned her to; who wouldn't understand what it meant to be left behind until she was five and in kindergarten, hearing the cruel words from her classmates for the first time; until she was seven and looking at old family albums of people who looked nothing like her; until she was nine and getting sat down at the kitchen table for The Conversation.

            In that instant, choking on foam and sewage, Dean hates himself.

            _You had no right._

            _No right_ , he'd thought so many times: bitter, angry, staring through tear-blurred eyes at nothing and no one, because there was no one to tell it _to_. No father to ask why he'd been left behind, no mother to ask how she could have loved him so little she'd left him for strangers to find.

 _Emma_ , he thinks. One last time, panicked and stricken and resigned.

            And that's when the arm hooks under his chest.

            Drags him up out of the water, and heat blossoms around his wrists, and then his ankles, as something melts the metal around them to sludge.

            "Breathe, Mr. Winchester," comes the ground-glass voice, and Dean inhales. Chokes on water and sputters it up and spasms and tries again. Spasms again, again, against the iron bar around his ribs. Between it and the unyielding expanse of Kevlar against his back.

            "Breathe," says the voice again, and Dean throws up. Salty water soured by his bile, strangely lukewarm as it fountains onto his knees, and that's the last thing he knows.

 

\- o -

           

            Cas declines the invitation to stay for dinner after all. Maybe because he's afraid of what else might happen if Claire and John don't decide to ignore each other; most likely because he's got bigger and better things planned for the night than politely ignoring the tension at the Winchester family dinner table.

            "Hey," Dean says as he walks Cas out onto the front porch. Dusk is falling, and Claire and Emma aren't much more than shadows in the distance, taking turns jumping from the tire swing to the ground, the strains of their voices drifting back with the breeze. "Thanks, man."

            Cas glances back at him.

            "For coming out here," Dean says. "I know you were busy."

            Cas pauses on the lowest step. He looks at Dean for a moment, that usual creepy stare that makes Dean certain Cas has invented some sort of contact lens that lets him X-ray vision people like Lydia did. Then he turns his head, and Dean turns his, too, following the line of Cas's vision to the small figures running around the tire tree.

            "You need to tell her."

            Dean's eyes flick back to Cas's profile.

            "About these powers," Cas says quietly.

            Dean attempts a grin. "Powers?" he says. "Dunno when a single episode of floatation started counting as 'powers,' Cas. What can the Justice League do with an Aunt Marge impression?"

            Cas turns his head to look at him. His eyes are dark, filled with pity. "This is how it starts, Dean. How it started for Lydia."

            The grin slides from Dean's mouth. There's no room in him anymore to feel hurt that Lydia never told him this. That Cas knows how Lydia's powers started and Dean doesn't. "Yeah?"

            "Yes," Cas says quietly.

            Dean draws a hand down his mouth. Watches Emma push Claire on the tire swing.

            "She needs to know," Cas says. "What is happening to her and why. She is already scared, and it will only worsen as she gets older, as she sees that she is not anyone else in her family, at her school. You need to tell her, Dean."

            "And what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Emma, your mom was an alien-slash-superhero and one of these days you're going to start shooting fire out of your eyes?  Here's a note so your teacher knows to send you to the clinic and call me?' "

            Cas's face remains unmoved. "She needs to know."

            "Yeah?" Dean snaps. "And how long before that makes her think she has some kind of responsibility? How long before she thinks she needs to be part of your Justice League like her mom? Huh, Cas?"

            Cas's eyes flash. "You think I'm doing this to _recruit_ her?"

            His voice is low, dangerous. Dean's eyes narrow at the threat in it, his jaw clenching. Cas glares back, icy. Then he takes a step forward, and another, until they stand toe to toe, noses nearly touching.

            "I would think," he says, and his voice is so low it vibrates in Dean's own chest, "that after all I've done, you would think better of my intentions."

            Dean stares at him, jaw unmoved. Cas stares back.

            Dean remembers an arm tight around his chest as water flowed from his nose, his mouth. Remembers the same arm tight around Emma in the loft, holding her down, holding her safe.

            Remembers the air rippling around him, around Emma, as Lydia flew away.

            "Uncle Cas!"

            Dean turns at Claire's voice, but Cas doesn't. Dean can feel his gaze on the side of his face as he looks at Claire. She's picked up on where Cas's attention is focused, too, and she's scowling at him. "Uncle _Cas_ ," she says again, stomping a foot.

            Cas finally looks away from Dean. "Yes, Claire." His voice is terse.

            "Me and Emma wanna have a sleepover tonight."

            "No. Tell Emma goodbye, we have to go home now."

            Claire stomps her foot again. " _No_ \--"

            Cas turns eyes of ice onto her. Claire cuts off without him saying a word. She runs back to Emma and the tire swing, shooting a hateful look over her shoulder at Cas as she goes.

            "Wow," Dean says, voice dripping sarcasm. " What was I thinking, not taking parenting advice from such a shining example of fatherhood?"

            Cas turns his gaze onto him, as icy as it was when he looked at Claire. "You have my number," he says, and strides to his Bentley. Dean watches him slide in, watches Claire head toward the car from the tire swing, little puffs of dust kicked up behind her as she stomps her feet to make her displeasure clear.

            When Claire's door shuts behind her and the Bentley accelerates toward the road, he looks away. Emma's just a dark silhouette on the tire swing now, holding onto the rope and watching them go. The sun's setting over the pasture behind her, and she's a picture of _lonely_ , of _left behind_ ; she's one of those thousand-word images that photographers win Pulitzers for.

            Her name escapes his lips on an exhale, more a breath than a word. An apology, a plea, so quiet she couldn't possibly have heard it.

            But her head turns toward him.

            He closes his eyes. Sinks his teeth into his lip. Then he opens his eyes and starts forward. He goes to her where she's still standing on the tire swing, sap-sticky hands curled around the rough rope. Her kicked-off shoes lie in the grass next to the empty milk glasses and part of a half-eaten cookie, and Emma watches Dean bend to pick them up, watches him as he holds them for her to push her bare dirty feet back into. When he slides his hands under her arms to lift her from the swing, she wraps them around his neck and puts her cheek against his cheek and it's not right for a kid to trust anyone this much.

            "Em," he says. Under his chin she smells like cookies and hay and the watermelon shampoo they bought at the grocery store yesterday. "Em, baby, Dad needs to tell you something."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schmoooooooop. Also, I am a technological ignoramus, so if any details are wrong here, I apologize and would welcome corrections. Thanks to everyone who's been reading!

* * *

 

 

                 _"Breathe, Mr. Winchester."_

 

\- o -

 

                Two months after that first-last kidnapping, Dean's in Gotham. He's making a new start. New apartment, new city. Gotham's a shithole, but the villains here don't know him. The resident vigilante does, maybe--Dean's only just lost the bruises and ache in his chest every time he breathes from the guy's CPR to prove it.

                That wasn't Dean's first time meeting Batman. The honor of that occasion goes to a few years back, when Lydia brought Dean onto the Watchtower and the cowled jerk was so busy glowering about having a civilian on board his pet project that he couldn't bother to shake Dean's hand like a human being. And there's been a few times since then, more overheard conversation between the Bat and Lydia than anything else. The bottom line is that Dean's confident the guy doesn't give enough of a fuck about Dean to get the Gotham psychos fixated on him, or his kid, the way the Metropolis ones were.

                Plus, the board of _The Gotham Gazette_ was so eager to steal a Pulitzer winner from the _Planet_ that Dean's signing bonus was enough to get him and Emma into a high-security apartment building with an honest-to-goodness doorman.

                A _doorman_. How did this even become his life?

                Still. There's a reason the _Gazette_ doesn't snag many high-profile journalists (or even good ones). The paper's less about reporting and more about socialite-stalking. The little real news there is tends to come heavily skewed by greasy palms and half-veiled threats, as Dean finds out the first time he comes clattering down the Gazette's marble front steps with his bag jouncing against his side, late to pick Emma up from daycare, and a gleaming limousine that looks more like a hearse slides to a smooth stop along the curb in front of him.

                The heavily tinted back window rolls down. It's bulletproof glass; Dean's eyes are already narrowing. He steps backward, out of range for anyone to grab him from inside.

                "Mr. Winchester," says the man revealed behind the window. Bald head, insincere smile, sunglasses with lenses as dark as the hearse windows. "We were hoping to catch you."

                "Sorry, I don't talk to anyone who wears shades when it's overcast," Dean says. A cab pulls up behind the limo, the driver shouting something angrily on his cell phone, and Dean jogs to it at a pace only slightly less than a sprint, and slides into the backseat, breathing hard. The cabbie casts him an uninterested glance and goes back to shouting in Arabic on his cell phone as Dean hands the scrap of paper with Emma's daycare address over the backseat.

                Emma comes to work with him, after that.

 

\- o -

 

                There is one person he trusts in Gotham, so far. Her name's Charlie Bradbury, she's a photographer at the _Gazette_ , and her hair is pretty much Emma's favorite thing in the universe.

                "Dude! I actually straightened it this morning!" Charlie complains. She thinks for a minute. "Or...yesterday morning, I guess."

                "Think of it as a hair wash," Dean says. Emma was lively enough to go in the baby carrier that slings across his front today--on the days she's got too much energy, she squirms like crazy in the back carrier, twisting around in an attempt to look at things and generally driving Dean (and his editor) insane. It put her in a perfect range to grab Charlie's hair when Charlie leaned over Dean's shoulder to peer at the surveillance footage Dean's been combing through since Charlie finally broke the security firewalls on the Niveus server at four a.m. this morning. She's got it in her mouth now, gumming happily on it. "Does that look like a shadow to you?"

                Charlie squints and takes out her red-framed glasses to peer at the screen. Emma does one of her happy-victorious growl noises, letting Charlie's hair out of her mouth to reach for them instead. Dean grabs the fat little fist in his hand and squeezes, making a playful growling sound of his own. Emma shrills laughter and kicks at him in her papoose.

                "Hey," he says, squeezing her foot. "Hey, Emmy-emster, what're you doing?"

                "There are too many parent-child bonding hormones going on here," Charlie declares, straightening now that her hair--dark and moistened into a point with Emma-spit--has been set free. "Excuse me while I go recover in the clean chemical air of the dark room."

                Dean snorts. She flashes him a mischievous grin and a peace sign. Emma makes a bereft sound as she walks away, which reminds Dean. "Hey, Charlie!"

                "Whaaaaat?" she whines, turning to walk backward.

                "You still cool with taking her tonight?"

                "Dude," Charlie says. "The alternative is having to go to that party myself. Emma is _so_ mine tonight."

               

\- o -

 

                Because while Gotham means (relative) security (Dean'll take sleaze-ball mob bosses over radioactive scientists any day), it also means going to black-tie affairs to report on the social events Dean gives exactly zero fucks about. Which means dealing with spoiled-ass rich kids who have now become spoiled-ass rich thirty-somethings.

                If John was dead, he'd turn over in his grave from Dean associating with people as...not heterosexual as Charlie and as...goddamn _entitled_ as Cas Novak. But he's not, so on his infrequent calls home, Dean just gets to hear John's disapproving grunts in the background as Mary asks Dean about that millionaire boy, about who found Dean that tux she saw him in on the news clips from the museum benefit, about whether he's making sure to mix Emma's milk with rice meal, she should be working up to solid foods soon.

                "Would you look at that! Dean Winchester, our very own celebrity transplant!" Zachariah Adler has his arms spread wide, parting the crowd around him as he steps toward Dean. "I'm glad you could make it, Dean."

                "I'm glad you took my advice on the sunglasses," Dean replies. He grabs a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter to avoid the shoulder-clasp-hug thing Adler seems to be moving in for.

                Adler's good; his smile doesn't brittle. "I bet you're looking for some quotes for an article, am I right? Why don't I introduce you to one of my campaign's biggest supporters?"

                "Why don't you," Dean says, just as falsely polite. He stays a step back so that Adler can't put a hand to his back to guide him to the other end of the room and follows him instead, stepping neatly around white-coated waiters and women in glitter-spangled dresses.

                "Castiel," says Adler when they reach the loosely knotted group of people near an ice sculpture meant to resemble one of the angel statues at the entrance of a historical Gotham cathedral. Adler kept the building from being knocked down during his tenure as Councilman. Similar ice sculptures representing his accomplishments as a municipal leader are scattered through the room. "You mind if I borrow you for a minute?"

                Novak turns. His eyes are as piercing blue as they were when Dean saw him at the _Inferno_ premiere last week, and the orphanage ribbon-cutting the week before that. It's kind of a shame how much the cover doesn't match the book. "Zachariah."

                "I don't think the two of you have met," Adler begins. "This is--"

                "We've met," Novak says, smiling widely at Dean. Like they're old friends, or something, just because Dean offered him a couple ibuprofen from his emergency stash when he saw the guy wincing at the _Inferno_ premiere. If Dean had known he'd find him in the bathroom at intermission, heaving his guts into the potpourri-scented trash can with a bourbon sitting on the sink, he might've thought twice. "I still owe you for coming to my rescue, Dean."

                "Not really," Dean says. "So you're the big campaign contributor Mr. Adler's talking about?"

                "I guess I am." Novak gives another smile, stepping away from the group of suits and ladies who look dismayed to see him go. "What would you like to know?"

                "Why you chose to support the councilman's campaign, to start with." Dean's pen is in his pocket, his steno pad in the same; he takes them both out, brow expectantly cocked.

                "Zachariah, I believe I see Uriel requesting your presence." Novak touches Adler's arm.

                Adler looks reluctant but turns, making eye contact with a man a few feet away. "Yes, I'll see to him in a few--"

                "Now," Novak says indifferently. Despite himself, the side of Dean's mouth kicks up in a little smirk. Adler's such an egotistical bastard it's nice to see him getting ordered around like Minion Number Three even if it's Novak doing the ordering.

                The billionaire turns back to Dean. "Where were we?"

                "I'd like to get a feel for what makes you think Adler would be a good man for office."

                Novak smiles again and gestures around him. "You have only to look at the ice sculptures, Dean. I'm the one who commissioned them, if you didn't know."

                Dean returns the smile. "I see." He clicks his pen once, studies Novak as the he smiles blandly at him. He pulls his lip under his teeth, then gives his most charming smile. "You decided not to commission any sculptures based on the money-laundering Counselor Adler's personal firm has been linked to, I see."

                Novak's bland expression doesn't falter. "I'm sure I don't know anything about that. Novak Incorporated has only Gotham's best interests at heart."

                Dean nearly laughs. "Since when do corporations have hearts, Mr. Novak?"

                There's something just this side of dangerous in the lazy, half-lidded smirk Novak rolls Dean's way. Dean studies it, brows knitting, but Novak doesn't say anything more, just tilts his champagne in Dean's direction and drags his hand across Dean's shoulder as he brushes past him to join another conversation.

                Dean's nostrils flare. He stays stiff until Novak's touch on his arm has faded, his shoulders taut under his tuxedo.

                A soft laugh cuts through the background murmur of voices and clicking heels, toasted glasses. "Digging for dirt, are we?"

                Dean glances over. "Miss Masters."

                "Please." Her teeth gleam almost as brightly at the diamonds at her ears and neck when she bares a smile at him, extending her hand. "Call me Meg."

 

\- o -

 

                Some days at the _Gazette_ he feels like a kangaroo, Emma chilling there against his ribs as he types and makes phone calls. He was a bit more tense about the bullpen teasing at the beginning, the fun that other reporters and photographers poked at him as they passed his desk ("How's it going there, Mama Winchester?"), but eventually he and Emma became more a fixture than a target, part of the office rather than something foreign. People drop off toys for Emma, frilly clothes their kids have outgrown, candy she's still too little for, and Emma considers it all with her usual deliberate, squinty eyes before jolting around to bury her head in Dean's neck. That was at first, at least--now she's bolder, and when people go to pat her head or her face, she has a tendency to try and grab them like she does Charlie, to bite or suck, no matter how many times he tells her (a) people aren't food, and (b) people's hands are dirty as shit, c'mon, kiddo.

                "Guess you're not feeding her enough," Walt says on his way to the break room, and Dean barks a laugh.

                "Are you kidding? She eats more than a Sasquatch!"

                Emma blows a raspberry.

                The best feeling is late in the day, when most everyone else has gone home and it's dim in the bullpen, just the falling darkness through the double-paned windows and the here-and-there yellow glows they reflect from the desk lamps of the people quietly working the night edition. Emma's at the tail end of her afternoon nap then, a warm weight against him as he types, her formula-sour breath hitting his neck as she breathes in, out. He knows she's starting to wake up when her tiny bow lips start to smack slowly, her chubby fingers start to open and close slowly against the hair at the nape of his neck. Then she'll pull at it, and push herself up, yawning that formula breath right into his face, like an _okay, Daddy-o, time to take me home._

                It's enough to make him feel like he's going to burst, some days. Just split slowly down the middle and all the warm, honey-soft feelings will pour slowly out.

                Times like that is when the ache is furthest, and closest.

                He wants to be home for her forever.

 

\- o -

 

                "Does it ever freak you out?" Charlie says. "How well-behaved she is?"

                Dean looks at Emma. He doesn't think there's anything particularly well-behaved about her at the moment. She's sitting in a high chair Dean dragged in to set up next to his desk last week, her mouth and the chair's plastic tray covered in the green stuff that the jar says is _Organic Sweet Peas!_ They've been slowly working new foods into her diet according to the month-by-month list he sat up on the phone with Mary a few Sunday nights ago to write. It's hanging on their fridge at home now, ink- and Gerber food-smeared.

                "Well, what's Baby Doll got to fuss about?" Missouri, their editor, stops by on her way to the Features staff meeting. "She's got everything she needs right here." She pinches Emma's cheek, regardless of the green shit covering her face, and makes baby noises at her. Dean and Charlie exchange long-suffering glances, which makes Missouri straighten up and whap both of them with the proofs in her hand.

                "Hey!" Dean rubs his head with the hand that has Emma's spoon in it. "No violence around my kid!"

                "You just dripped peas all over your hair, boy," Missouri informs him, unimpressed, and thwacks Charlie again, more gently, on the shoulder. "C'mere, Miss Bradbury, I need you in this meeting."

                "But I cover hard news!" Charlie protests as she's dragged along by the drawstrings of her Captain America hoodie.

                Dean sets Emma's spoon down on the tray, carefully out of her reach. She strains forward to reach it anyway, flexing her green-covered chub-fingers. He makes his usual Growly Dad sound at her, making her laugh and attempt a growl back, as he digs in his desk drawer for some napkins to wipe the pea shit out of his hair.

                He can't find anything in any of his drawers, though, so he ends up under his desk, digging through Emma's diaper bag because he _knows_ he's got some wet-naps in there. Which is, of course, when someone walks up to his desk, their shiny wingtips visible on the floor in front of him, and raps on the top of his monitor.

                Dean shoves up, hits his head on the top of his desk. He's cursing by the time he finally surfaces from under his desk, to Emma's shrieking glee. "Look, pal," he begins irritably, then stops when he sees who's leaning against the other side of his desk.

                Novak flashes stupidly white teeth. "Dean."

                Dean automatically glances at Emma, like Novak's some sort of threat and might have hurt her. He's just in time to get a pea-covered spoon flung at his nose.

                "Crap!"

                Emma shrieks even more happily. One of her fat feet hits him in the chest; he grabs it reflexively, thumb cupped in her socked little instep. "Did you give her that?"

                "What?" says Novak.

                "The spoon."

                Novak raises his eyebrow innocently. Dean glares and scoots backward on his knees to get the spoon off the floor.

                "I don't think she likes--" Novak picks up the jar, "organic sweet peas."

                "I don't think she likes you," Dean grumbles back, and drops down in his chair so he can see his reflection in the computer monitor to swipe the peas out of his hair. "Were you looking for something?"

                "Someone, actually," Novak says. Dean's not looking at him, but the amusement in his voice is audible. "Is Missouri around here?"

                Dean resists the urge to peer around at him at his familiar use of Missouri's name. He points at the conference room instead, and keeps his attention pointedly on his reflection until the guy's walked away.

                "Look here, kiddo," he informs Emma as they leave work that evening. She's moved up to a forward-facing car seat now, can bat at his face as he straps her in. Can also stick her fingers up his nose if he's not fast enough, like today. He sneezes and pulls her hand away. "There's a thing called a united front, you know? If a jerkface comes over while Dad's ass-up under his desk, you shout the alarm, you don't throw pea guts at him, capisce?"

                "Ass-up?"

                Dean stiffens, hand going immediately to the pepper spray inside his blazer. Then he turns slowly.

                Novak gives him another of those sly smiles.

                "Really?" Dean says. "Sneaking up on a guy and his kid in a dark parking garage, that's a thing you do?"

                "Going into a dark parking garage at night with your child," Novak says, taking a step closer. "That's a thing you do?"

                Dean doesn't let himself swallow. He shuts Emma's door, as nonchalantly as he can, and reaches deeper into his blazer.

                Novak raises his hands, palm-up. "I'm not going to do anything, Dean."

                "Sure you aren't." Dean's eyes flick around, past Novak, to the few other cars still parked in the garage. "You come with buddies, huh?"

                Novak tilts his head. "You think I'm a bad guy?"

                "I think there isn't anyone in this city who doesn't have their fingers in a few pots," Dean says. "Starting with your buddy Zach."

                "I want to give you my card," Novak says. It's not exactly a response to anything Dean's said, which throws him off long enough that Novak's hand is in his pocket before Dean can take his pepper spray out. He withdraws a small white rectangle of paper, a business card, sure enough, and holds it out toward Dean. "In case you ever need certain...facts checked."

                Dean stares at the card for a minute. Then, with a flick of his eyes to Novak's, he takes it, his movement like a snake's, quick and wary.

                Novak smiles. Then he walks away.

                Dean jumps into his car and accelerates out of the parking garage so fast the Impala's tires squeal.

 

\- o -

               

                He's fairly certain there are tracers on the IPs at the Gazette. Which is why he saves a lot of his research for home, where Charlie's made his internet usage about as traceable as the money in Adler's Swiss accounts.

                Or so he'd thought.

                He's just finally gotten Emma to fall asleep, after three rounds of "Devil's Gotta Earn," and he's leaning there against the side of her crib, studying the tiny veins on the translucent skin of her eyelids, the tiny darts of her eyes underneath as she dreams. He can only imagine the things she dreams of. Wonders if they're human or if they're more, wonders if she ever dreams of Lydia, of the way Lydia's hair used to hang over her when she held her.

                It lulls him into a melancholy, a dull stupid one that has him thinking of the Samuel Adams in the fridge as he turns away. Then his eyes focus on the unfamiliar shape in Emma's window and his stomach drops out.

                Batman stares back at him.

                Dean licks his lips. Then he strides forward and shoves open the window. "The hell are you doing here?"

                "I need information."

                "So you come to my house?"

                The mask's lenses are whited out, but Dean would swear he senses the guy's eyes flick sideways anyways. "You would prefer I come to your place of employment?"

                "I'd prefer you send me a fucking e-mail."

                "From whom? TheBatmanatgmaildotcom?"

                Dean scowls for a moment, more to keep from laughing than anything else. The guy's raspy voice is dry, which suggests he wants to be found funny, and Dean's having none of it. "What information are we talking about?"

                "You've acquired records of Adler's accounts. I need copies of his transactions."

                Dean chews his cheek for a minute, still glaring. His hand is white-knuckled on the window jamb. Finally, he says, "I need a USB drive for it."

                Batman holds out a matte black thumb drive.

                Dean scoffs, not taking it. "Yeah, so you can download spyware to my system? I don't think so."

                "Mr. Winchester," Batman says. "How do you think I came to know you had this information in the first place?"

                Dean stares at him. Batman's whited-out lenses stare back.

                "Then why didn't you just access it?"

                Batman's mouth is almost a smile beneath the cowl. "Ms. Bradbury is very skilled."

                Dean glares at him for another moment. Then he grumbles, "Damn right she is," and goes to pull Emma's window shut.

                Batman catches with a black-gloved hand. His empty lenses are accusing, like, _What are you doing?_

                "You think I'm leaving you alone with my kid? Hit the other window." Dean jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

                "I will not harm her," Batman rumbles, and makes to climb inside.

                "Yeah, no," Dean says, and shoves him back outside with a punch to the midriff-- _fuck_ , that hurts--and slams the window shut. He jerks the curtains closed, too, for good measure, and glances at Emma as he runs for the door, but she's still sleeping, even snoring now, the little chunker.

                His bedroom window's open. Dean looks at it, then at the corner where his desk is. Batman's lenses gleam out of the darkness.

                "Aren't you supposed to have to wait for an invitation to come in?" he grouses, moving toward his laptop to turn it on. He gives the darker shadow next to his desk a wide berth, like Batman might open his cape and swallow Dean inside it.

                "I'm not a vampire," Batman says, and there's that almost-amusement in his voice again.

                "Could've fooled me," Dean mutters.

                Batman says nothing. Dean clears his throat and begins to drum his fingers on the laptop, wishing it would boot up faster. The screen finally comes up. Fuck, he shut it down last night with updates enabled. It's gonna take an age and a half to boot back up with them installing.

                He glances at Batman from the corner of his eye. His blue computer screen, with its UPDATES INSTALLING--33% COMPLETE, is reflected in the white lenses.       

                He clears his throat.

                "So. I never thanked you for saving my ass, that time."

                Batman turns his head toward him. "Which time?"

                "Which--dude, it was only the once."

                It's like the guy's voice can raise its eyebrows. "Was it?"

                Dean stares. Then he snorts. "Whatever. Look, moral of the story is, I'm grateful, but--"

                "You might want to be more careful about what you investigate."

                Dean breaks off. "What?"

                "What you investigate." Batman takes a step closer. "The people you're looking into... They don't take kindly to having light shone upon their activities."

                Dean thinks of Adler in his creepy hearse. Novak in the parking garage that afternoon. Adler's dirty, Dean's got the proof of that sitting on his hard drive right now, but-- "We talking Novak, too?"

                Batman melts a step back, into the shadows of Dean's room. "Novak's clean," he rumbles. "For now."

                Dean studies him a moment longer. Then he turns back to his computer and grabs a spare USB drive from the drawer, loads the intel he and Charlie dug up onto it.

                "Hey," he says as Batman's gloved hand takes it from his. "This--it can't become a regular thing, okay? I've got a kid to think about."

                Batman inclines his head. Then he's gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Big time skip this chapter. I know the jumping back and forth has been confusing, and I hope that in the end it will all make sense. Thanks for your patience with it! Also, Lawrence is supposed to be the equivalent of Smallville here. So picture it as being much more rural than it is. Please and thanks!

(This fic will probably be longer than five chapters after all. Sorry!)

 

* * *

 

 

            "Dean, this is your third Kerth award for investigative journalism. What does a reporter do after achieving that kind of recognition? Is it time to retire?"

            On the TV screen, Dean puts on a smile. It looks somewhat pained. "I don't think so, Becky. The recognition's great, don't get me wrong, but no one gets into journalism to be recognized." He laughs, slightly, and the studio audience laughs as well. "When it comes down to it, the awards are about--"

            Emma slips out of the living room. She can sense the look Grandma Mary shoots her but pretends not to notice, clattering down the back porch steps to the backyard. Grandpa John's out there, frowning at the tractor. He never stays inside to watch Dean's interviews, though Emma's seen the collection of _Gazette_ cut-outs in his nightstand drawer, held together with rubber bands.

            She stops next to him. "Somethin' wrong with it?"

            "Tire needs pluggin'." John sits back on his haunches, creaks up to his feet. "Fancy a drive into town?"

           

\- o -

 

            Lawrence is as sleepy as ever. They pass the high school football field on the way into town, the cheerleaders practicing their pyramid and football players squirting each other with bottles of Gatorade in the sweltering heat of a late June morning. Emma looks out the other window, at the dusty yellow school buses parked in the spare lot for the summer, as the chanted cheers filter in through her and John's open windows.

            Adam's manning the counter in his dad's shop when they get there. "S'up, Em--heeey, Mr. Winchester!" he modifies quickly when he sees Emma's granddad coming in behind her. "Can I help you with anything, sir?"

            John shoots him an unimpressed look that says, _son, I know this store a hell of a lot better than you do_ , and disappears into the hardware row. Adam shoots an _I just came this close to shitting my pants_ look at Emma, who rolls her eyes.

            He makes a face back at her. Then he says, "Soooo... the Fourth Festival's coming up. Word on the street is you're lookin' for a date."

            "Word on the street is you want me to be your date so you don't have to ask anyone." Emma hops up onto the counter, swinging her legs. "Just because we're in the country doesn't mean you have to live up to the backcountry kissing cousins stereotype."

            "Technically, we're not really cousins," Adam says. Because of course he knows that Dean was adopted. The whole fucking town knows, and that fact's just another thing for Emma to add to the very long list of reasons it was pretty shitty of her dad to dump her here.

            "I'd be the best date you ever had," Adam says. "Zero burping, no groping, and I'll even pay for dinner."

            Emma actually considers it for a minute. Grandma Mary might keel over with happiness if Emma went to a dance. But John'll go stormy over it, and they'll fight again, the way they did when Emma set the fence post on fire last week. John'll say it's not safe for her to be out with people when she doesn't have to be, Mary'll hiss that they can't treat her like an animal, John, and Emma'll sit in her room upstairs pretending she can't hear them through the floorboards.

            "Nope," she says. "Sorry, man."

            Adam wails and lets his forehead thunk down against the counter. John emerges from the shelves, brow raised. Adam straightens hastily; Emma slides down off the counter; and John plunks a box of nails and a couple tire plugs down next to the register.

            The truck ride back to the farm is quiet, broken only by the weather forecast on the radio that John cranks up the volume to hear. It predicts dry, dusty skies for the rest of the week, and then is interrupted by a newscast about the Justice League's most recent--

            John turns it off.

            Emma watches the side mirror. Watches the dust blown up in the truck's wake. Takes the tire plugs when the truck rolls to a stop and John hands them to her, nods when he says he's headed out to the back pasture to fix that fence post.

            Watches the dust as the truck barrels away.

 

\- o -

 

            The front porch is empty. So is the dirt driveway, and there's no answer when Claire knocks on the door. But as she turns around on the porch that she remembers being a lot smaller, a groan of metal breaks through the background hum of cicadas in the afternoon heat. Claire steps down one porch step, another, listening. The groan comes again; it's coming from behind the faded red barn located further down the Winchesters' driveway.

            Claire rubs the flat of her boot down her ankle, checking to make sure her blade's still strapped securely inside. Then she follows the sound, stepping as lightly as when she sneaks down into the Batcave to spy on Cas.

            The source of the noise is an aged tractor behind the old fenced-in sty that held pigs the last time Claire was here. Its edges are orange with rust, and someone's bent over one of the huge, sod-caked wheels to reach inside toward the axle. It's a girl in cut-off jean shorts so old and torn that Claire can see her underwear through the holes.

            She follows the line of the girl's spine up under an old flannel shirt to a straggly dirty-blonde ponytail. "Emma?"

            The girl starts so violently her head hits the wheel well. _CLAAAANG._

            "Mother _fuck!_ "

            For a second, Claire falters. Panic and an overwhelming sense of desolation sweep through her.

            Then Emma pulls out from inside the wheel well, and Claire sees the large dent in the rusted metal her head hit.

            Emma steps quickly in front of it, rubbing her scalp. Her sweaty face is flushed, but there's no wound, no gleaming red blood.

            No blood.

            "Excuse you," Emma says. Her voice is impatient, like maybe she's tried to get Claire's attention a few times already. Claire blinks and refocuses on her face. "You sneak up on me just to gawk, or you here for a reason?"

            "Sorry." She pulls out her Novak smile. "I should've said something. Are you all right?"

            "Fine. Who're you?"

            "Claire Novak." She extends her hand. "You remember, we used to play together when we were younger--?"

            If Emma recognizes her, she doesn't show it. There's an old, oil-smeared rag hanging out of one of her pockets, and she tugs it free, wiping her hands with it as she continues to look at Claire, eyebrows expectantly raised.

            "My uncle knew your dad. They were--" She's not sure _friends_ is the word, but she says it anyway.

            "That's great," Emma says. "But my dad hasn't been here since Christmas, so if you're looking for him you should probably find a different tree to bark up."

            Claire licks her lips. "You haven't talked to him?"

            Emma's mouth twists. It's an expression of dark, bitter amusement, like very strong black coffee, and Claire hadn't seen the resemblance between her and her uncle's friend/whatever-he-is until that moment. "We're not exactly a nuclear family."

            Claire stares at her. Emma holds her gaze for a minute, then picks up her wrench and turns back around. "So, if you don't mind..."

            "I do, actually."

             Emma looks over her shoulder. Her expression is half _what the hell_ annoyance and half disbelieving amusement. "Seriously?"

            "Seriously." Claire pulls her hands out of her pockets to cross her arms over her chest, striding closer. Emma straightens up, her own arms coming to her sides, and Claire's lips nearly quirk up as she stops in front of her. Is the other girl trying to _loom_?

            "Excuse me," she says as Emma glares at her. The tiniest inch separates their heights. "Your breasts are going to touch my breasts if you come any closer."

            Emma's mouth drops open. She actually stumbles closer, losing her balance in her shock, then yanks back. "Who _are_ you?"

            "I already told you that. Do you really not have any contact with your father? It's imperative that I find him."

            Emma gets that angry expression again. But before either of them can say anything more, a car engine rumbles into earshot behind them. Claire turns, rounding the corner of the barn as tires crunch into the drive, to see a black pick-up pull in next to her Ducati.

            Claire stands straight-backed as the truck's engine cuts. A big man swings out of the driver's seat, his canvas coat as worn and age-battered as his face. He's looking straight at her.

            She feels Emma coming up behind her. She's sucking in a breath to say something, Claire's not sure what, but it doesn't matter, Claire's striding forward, holding out her hand. "Mr. Winchester."

            His eyes flick past her, presumably to Emma, before returning to Claire's face. His handshake is strong, almost bruising, and rough with calluses. "Who're you?"

            "Claire Novak. I don't know if you remember--"

            "City girl," John says. "Yeah, I remember you. You here with your dad?"

            Claire keeps her smile from going brittle. "On my own, actually. My uncle and I are having...a difference of opinions, at the moment."

            John studies her, his expression unimpressed. Pity, Claire had thought he might be softened by her admission of disagreement with her uncle. John had never shown much liking for Cas, at least not that she can remember.

            He grunts. Turns toward the house. "You might as well come in, Mary's going to ask you to stay for dinner anyway."

            Claire flicks a glance back at Emma as she follows John. Emma's by the tractor again, has her hand surreptitiously in the wheel well, though she steps quickly in front of it when she sees Claire looking back at her.

            Not quickly enough, though, to keep Claire from seeing that the metal rim's been bent back into place.

            She turns back to face forward and smiles.

 

\- o -

 

            Mary is the Winchester Claire has always remembered the most clearly, the same blonde hair and blue eyes that were almost all she could remember of her mom. She was taller in Claire's memory, though, and Claire feels a strange bereftness now, seeing Mary's blonde hair streaked with gray and her blue eyes level with Claire's, maybe even an inch or two shorter.

            It's not right, to be taller than someone she associates with such a sense of safety. It feels naked, feels vulnerable.

            But Mary's smile is still as kind and bright as Claire remembered when she comes inside the door with grocery bags in her arms. "Claire Novak! I haven't seen you in years, sweetheart!" She smells like potpourri when she puts the bags down on the kitchen table and hugs Claire. "How are you?"

            "Well," Claire says, pulling away. "You?"

            Mary's still beaming at her. "Oh, you know us, same old, same old. Emma, isn't this a nice surprise?"

            Emma's washing her black-caked fingers at the sink. "Yeah, great."

            Mary pulls a bag of carrots out of the brown paper bag. Emma brings over two peelers and a few pages of newspaper, spreading them out on the table and beginning to peel the carrots. It's a strangely domestic thing to watch, the fingers that had been black against rusty metal now scrubbed pink and curling around vegetables and kitchen utensils.

            "Well," Mary says, taking out a bag of potatoes now. "Tell us what brings you all the way out to Lawrence, Claire. Is your uncle here, too?"

            "Yes," Claire lies. "He wanted me to send his apologies he couldn't make it. He's tied up in meetings at the plant."

            A snort comes from behind her. Claire glances back to see John coming through the door, heading toward the kitchen sink to wash up. Mary shoots him a reproachful look, and then Claire an apologetic one.

            Emma moves on to peeling the potatoes, the carrots a shorn orange stack on the newspaper beside her elbow. Claire watches her, politely ignoring the conversation being held in glances between Mary and John.

           

\- o -

 

            Dinner is equally awkward. Claire had forgotten this part of the Winchester house, the strange tension strung between its members like a spider web quivering in anticipation of its maker's next meal. Forks clink and scrape against plates, and after they say Grace, John grunts, "Dean coming this weekend?"

            It takes Claire a moment to realize he's looking at her. "Ah," she says. "I wouldn't know. Is he?"

            Mary clears her throat. "He didn't call me, sweetheart."

            John splits open a biscuit and butters it in short movements. "He could stop by every once in a while." His eyes flick toward Emma. "Considering."

            "John," Mary says quietly.

            John grunts and looks out the window.

            "You haven't heard from him lately?" Claire keeps her voice purposely light, but Emma glances up anyway, for the first time since they sat down, her hazel eyes sharp and alert.

            Mary musters a _nothing's wrong_ smile. "Not recently. He's very busy, since his last Kerth." The pride in her voice isn't enough to drown out the worry, and Claire studies her a moment longer before Emma clears her throat.

            "Hey, uh, Claire." She pushes back from the table. "Can I show you something?"

            Claire looks at Mary.

            "Of course," Mary says. "I thought you two might like to catch up. I'll keep your dinners warm, shall I?"

            She rises to take both their plates into the kitchen, and Claire stands, follows Emma through the kitchen and out the back door. They cut across the yard, to the wooden fence separating the yard from the pasture. The tree with the old tire swing cuts a dark silhouette against the dusky sky a couple dozen yards from them.

            Emma whirls when she reaches the weathered post. Claire tries to figure out if her eyes are actually glowing or if they just look like they are, in the light from the Winchesters' back porch.

            "What do you want with Dean?" she demands. "And _don't_ try to bullshit me."

            "My uncle's missing."

            Emma blinks. She stares at Claire.

            "And that has to do with us how...?"

            "I thought your dad might know what he was doing." Claire widens her eyes pointedly. "You know."

            Emma widens her eyes back just as meaningfully. "Uh...no?"

            Claire rolls her eyes now. "You know..." she repeats. Then, at Emma's continued _I have no fucking idea what you're on about_ expression, she puts her fingers up at her temples, miming bat ears.

            Emma's forehead just wrinkles further. And Claire realizes.

            "Oh my God. You don't know."

            "Obviously. The hell are you talking about?"

            Claire shifts uneasily. It's not exactly her secret to tell, but it's not like Cas has left her much of a choice. Still... She studies Emma, lip drawn beneath her teeth. How little does Emma know, then? About herself even?

            "My uncle's Batman," she says finally.

            Emma's eyes go even wider. " _What_?"

            "You heard me," Claire says. "Dean knows about it, so I thought he might know what was going on, or have come out here to hide, or something."

            "Hide out?" Emma echoes. "What, is someone after him?"

            She's surprisingly pale for someone who was so blasé about him earlier. The change makes Claire's voice gentler when she says, "His apartment was...sort of a mess."

            Emma keeps staring at her. "Like--?"

            "My uncle has his apartment under surveillance. I checked the tapes after I went there yesterday and found it...um. Ransacked." She steps toward Emma, her eyes flicking toward the house where John's silhouette is visible through the curtained window. "There's footage of him coming home last week but none of him leaving."

            Emma's voice is very quiet. "You think he was kidnapped?"

            Claire nods. Emma stares back at her, knuckles against her bottom lip. She bites down on one.

            "What do you want from me?" she says, even more quietly.

            Claire doesn't move. "I think you know what."

            It comes as if on cue. Emma's eyes flash a startling, unreal red. A grunt escapes her, and she slams her fists over her eyes. "Get back--!"

            Claire steps away. Watches Emma stumble forward as if blind, one hand clamped over her eyes. The other is extended, groping through the air for the fence. Her hand closes around the post and then she breaks into a near-run, keeping one hand always against the wood.

            After a moment, Claire follows. Their footsteps crash through the leaves as they enter the woods that border the pasture, further and further until Claire's lungs are beginning to burn in her chest. Then they're emerging at the bank of what looks like an abandoned mill pond.

            Emma falls to a stop. Her feet slip in the mud as she nearly stumbles forward onto her knees in the water. A burst of red light bursts from her face straight into the still water. Steam hisses up, foul-smelling and billowing, and Claire grabs Emma's shoulder.

            The other girl is panting, her back shaking. She has her eyes shut again. The skin around them is flushed, whether from heat or from extra blood rushing to the region to perfuse her eyes for the "heat vision," as Cas once called it, and Claire touches the flushed skin carefully, just the tips of her fingers.

            Emma wrenches back. "Are you an _idiot_?"

            Claire keeps her fingers against the skin, blinking against the steam still billowing through the clearing. "Open up."

            Emma clenches her eyelids tighter.

            "Emma."

            "Did you not see what just happened?" Emma snaps. "Get _back_!"

            "I just told you my uncle's Batman. You think I'm impressed by a little laser vision?"

            Emma's mouth goes slack-jawed the way it did when Claire told her their boobs were going to touch. "Are you serious?"

            The words don't come out as combative as she probably meant them to. They're almost pleading instead. Claire eases her hand over Emma's own where it's clamped over her eyes and digs her fingertips between Emma's knuckles. Peels her hand back.

            Emma's breath shakes out her mouth. Her hand trembles inside Claire's. Then she opens her eyes. Claire watches her profile, watches the long dark eyelashes sweep up, sweep down, up again. A breath punches out of Emma, relieved.

            Then she turns her head to look at Claire. Their eyes are mere inches apart, their mouths the same, and for a minute they just stare at each other.

            Then Emma's pushing up, back. "You knew."

            Claire rises, more slowly. "I suspected."

            "He told you?" Emma says. She snorts before Claire can formulate an answer. "Of course he did. Must be great, the three of you being a big happy human family in Gotham. How long did it take him to come live with you? Do you call him _Dad_?"

            Claire shoves her.

            Emma stumbles backward. For a minute, she looks stunned. Then she launches herself at Claire, and the next few moments are a flurry of punches and kicks and burning stings and Claire's back hitting a tree, hard.

            Emma stops in front of her, panting. Her eyes definitely are glowing this time, just a faint, barely-there gold that wouldn't have been as noticeable if it weren't nearly full-night now, the sky a dark indigo through the treetops above them.

            Claire turns her head to spit out a mouthful of blood. She swipes a hand across her mouth, looks at the dark smear across her knuckles. Then she squints back up at Emma.

            "You coming with me or not?"

 

\- o -

 

            "You don't know what the hell you're doing."

            Emma stills. Grandpa John's in her doorway. It's really Sam's doorway, or had been. Grandma Mary hadn't had the heart to put her in Dean's old room after he left, that warm gold afternoon when she'd been abandoned. She'd let her go into her Uncle Sam's room instead, and nestle under the old soccer-themed sheets there, crying until the pillow was hot and wet and didn't smell like anything but her.

            The pillowcase is different now, a WWE-themed one that Adam got her as a gag gift for her sixteenth birthday, but the goose feather pillow inside is still the same one as then, soaked in all the angry tears and huffed breaths she's buried in it since this room became hers, and probably Uncle Sam's before that.

            She starts moving again. Stuffs another sweatshirt into her backpack. Claire said it would get cold where they're going. "Nope."

            "You're gonna get yourself killed."

            She zips it shut. "Maybe."

            John takes a step inside the room. "You don't even care, do you?"

            Emma yanks the backpack straps over her shoulders. Turns around to face him. "What, like you do?"

            John stares at her. Emma stares back. There's a heartbeat thudding in her ears; she's not sure if it's his or hers.

            "I hope to God you don't mean that," John says finally.

            "And what if I do?" Emma says. "You gonna stop me?"

            He sticks his hands in his pockets. "We tried to raise you right. God knows we tried, Emma."

            Her eyes are inexplicably filling with tears. She shakes her head once, twice. Swipes a hand across them and inhales.

            "You come back here when you're done," John says. Emma hates that he's still ordering her around, hates more that it feels safe and familiar. To be told what to do, to be told to come back. "You don't need to get mixed up in their shit."

            "John."

            It's Mary; she's in the doorway. She'd been quiet when Emma and Claire came back to the house, Claire's face swelling dark and purple; quiet when Emma announced she was leaving with Claire, and why.

            John's lips thin. He squares his shoulder and leaves the room, shoulder brushing Mary's as he pushes through the doorway.

            Mary steps inside. Her arms are wrapped around herself, over her baking apron. "You know your father didn't want to leave you."

            "I know, Gran," Emma says tiredly. They've had this conversation so many times, or at least Mary's tried to have it, but actions speak louder than words. If Dean hadn't wanted to leave her, he wouldn't have. Especially now that Emma knows that the fucking _Bat_ man's had his back the whole time, that he could have kept them safe, could have kept Emma from hurting anyone as she grew into her stupid alien powers.

            "I just..." Mary steps closer, hesitates. Cups Emma's cheek. "Sweetheart, we can make such bad decisions when we're scared."

            "I've gotta go." Emma's voice is taut, almost trembling, and she swallows, pats Mary's shoulder before stepping around her and clambering down the stairs. Claire's already on her Ducati, the headlight a bright glare in the dark. She revs the engine when Emma jumps down the porch steps.

            It's not like she needs the helmet Claire hands her, but she puts it on anyway, just to pretend she doesn't see Mary standing behind the screen door and watching them go.

 

\- o -

 

            The old man waiting in the huge-ass cave Claire drives them into three hours later whistles when Claire pulls her helmet off. "The hell happened to you?"

            Emma pulls off her own helmet as she dismounts behind Claire. "Me."

            The man eyes her. He's got on a baseball cap and an insulated vest that might've been orange once. He looks like a trucker. "Don't tell me. Winchester's kid?"

            Emma scowls. Claire smirks, the expression more comical than anything as it pulls on her puffy lip. "What gave it away?"

            "The Disney Princess eyes," the man says. He sticks out a hand. "You still go by Emma?"

            "...yeah," Emma says, accepting his handshake. "Why wouldn't I?"

            "Wasn't sure if you'd decided to start calling yourself Golden Morningstar or somethin'. Sometimes you superhero types get big heads."

            Emma looks at Claire. She's no help, crouched at a huge console in the corner and digging through something. "I'm not a superhero type."

            "Glad to hear it," he says. "I'm Bobby. You headin' out with Claire tonight?"

 

\- o -

 

            Emma tilts her head doubtfully at the solid black costume Claire walks out of the locker room wearing. Even the bat symbol on the front of it is black, gleaming slightly against the surrounding fabric. "I thought sidekicks were supposed to be...flashier?"

            If looks could kill--well, if they could kill half-Kryptonians. Or if Claire's eyes had Kryptonite in them. Then Emma would be in big trouble.

            "I'm _not_ a sidekick."

            "Then how do you have all this crap?" Emma walks closer, toeing the front tire of a second Ducati, this one matte black, with her old sneaker. She gets another Bat Glare from Claire.

            "Her uncle may or may not know she's got all this shit put together," Bobby says.

            "You may or may not have helped me make it," Claire retorts, which gets a smirk from Bobby before he tugs his cap down to hide it.

            Emma looks down at herself, tugging at her jean shorts. "What about me?"

            Claire tosses her a bundle of fabric. "Here."

            Emma shakes it out, already making a face. It looks like a replica of Claire's outfit, which is way too fucking tight for Emma's taste. And Claire hasn't got much on her in the boobs department, which is gonna make this even harder. "Do I have to?"

           

\- o -

 

            "Holy shit," she says as she comes out of Claire's impromptu changing room--which is actually a whole locker room with gleaming shower stalls and benches, what the fuck?--wearing the costume. "I think I'm going to need lube to get out of this thing."

            Claire snorts. Bobby rolls his eyes.

             Emma creaks over to where Claire's leaning over the ginormous keyboard in front of the even more ginormous computer screen. She resists the urge to pick the wedgie she's pretty sure she's rocking right now. Jesus Christ, this thing is tight. "Were you supposed to give me armored underwear to go with this or something?"

            Claire ignores her. She's got her hair pulled back in a bun so tight her eyes are wide with it, her attached cowl hanging behind her neck like a hood. "Here's where we're headed." She brings up what looks like a Google Maps Street View on the screen, showing a four-way intersection populated by a single old Dodge with slashed tires, a pole that looks like it used to have a street sign attached to it, and old tenement buildings with barred, papered-over windows. "You have anything to contribute?"

            "Uh...no?" Emma's not sure what Claire's asking for. "I've never been to Gotham in my life. Much less Crime Alley over there."

            "That's not Crime Alley."

            "Yeah, it was a joke--wait. There's an actual street called Crime Alley?"

            Claire pulls her cowl over her head, eyes disappearing behind whited-out lenses. "Yes," she says, and it takes Emma a minute of scrutinizing the inscrutable bug-eyes to figure out, "Oh my God, you're serious."

            "Would you stop talking and just put on the mask?" Claire swings a leg over the Bat-Ducati, straddling the seat and kicking up the stand.

            Emma makes a face at her and pulls the cowl over her head. It's as tight as the rest of the costume is, feels like it's got some kind of suction grip on her scalp, and she works her jaw a few times, trying to get used to the tightness. "I can't even open my mouth in this thing."

            "Good," Claire says. Emma glares at her through the mask's lenses. "Hair."

            There's still wisps sticking out from under her mask by her ears and forehead. Emma tried to stuff it all under, but her hair's not as perfect-straight as Claire's, and tendrils kept sneaking back out. She figured it wouldn't be that big a deal, but Claire's leaning forward on the bike to cup the back of Emma's head with one hand, peeling her hood back slightly with the other. She smoothes Emma's hair briskly up under the hood with her gloved thumb, and Emma is frozen, her heart thundering so hard inside her ribs she's pretty sure Claire can hear it.

            Claire releases her and sits back. Kicks up the kickstand. "C'mon."

            Emma climbs on behind her. The space between her legs throbs hard against the contoured leather seat.

 

\- o -

 

            Claire moves across the rooftops like a cat. Or a ninja. A cat ninja. "How long've you been doing this again?"

            Claire shoots her a look. It's hard to tell with Emma's bug eyes, and hers, but it's most likely a glare. A _shut the fuck up and stop letting everyone in a five-mile radius know we're up here_ glare.

            Emma huffs. Like people can't hear her creaking around in this stupid costume, anyway. Jeez, she really wants to pick the wedgie. But it's a matter of pride not to do it while Claire could see. She grimaces again, and grimaces harder when the bug-eye lenses dig in against her eyeballs again. God, she hates all this Bat crap.

            A part of her thinks of the pictures she's seen of her mother. How thin her costume looked, stretchy fabric and easy to move in, no bulky Kevlar or constricting collar that dug into her throat every time she turned her head.

            Another part of her resolutely does not think about her mother and determinedly pads after Claire, the simmering anger turning her pace into a prowl, purposeful and silent.

            She won't realize until later that she wasn't walking on the rooftop. That she was stalking across air.

 

\- o -

 

            They find the informant Claire was looking for. He's overseeing drug packing in what must've been some sort of ballroom in the hotel this building used to be. They've got a nice assembly line type thing going; there's even some reggaeton going from a speaker somewhere to keep the pace up. Well, that and the semi-automatic one of the guys is walking around with.

            Maybe if Emma had been a little more focused on the guns and less on trying to figure out who sings this song (she knows his name, it's _right_ on the tip of her tongue) she would've noticed the guy noticing them creeping along the high windows set in the walls, and she would have noticed him training the gun on Claire before he pulled the trigger.

            She didn't, though, and now Claire's kind of shot, by which Emma means a lot shot, and holy fucking shit shit shit, "Claire, Claire, shit, talk to me, Claire--!"

            There are little stinging things pinging off her back. Peripherally, she smells burnt fabric and another smell that must be bent Kevlar. But her tunnel vision's all the bright red blood and darkening black fabric and Claire's white, white lips, like all the blood's gone from them to gush out with the stuff wet and warm and gooshing through the fabric of Emma's gloves.

            "Shit shit shit," and like that she's in the air, Claire's in the air, Claire's in her arms and they're zooming up to the window they climbed through, and the nice neat perfect circle Claire had used some Bat-gadget for gets ruined by Emma just crashing through the double-paned glass like it's made of sugar, ducking herself tight and close around Claire to protect her from the shards.

 

\- o -

 

            "Put me down," Claire's saying by the time Emma (finally) finds the huge manor at the edge of the city. Her teeth are chattering around the demand, so it's not as reassuring as it should be because Emma thinks she might be going into shock from blood loss. And she's freaking out; she feels like her insides are made of sugar glass and someone's punched them all to pieces and now they're crunching around inside her oh God, oh God, she doesn't know how to stop, and so she sails through a window on the second floor instead, shattering more glass and slamming into a wall next to a grandfather clock and thank you God, thank you Jesus; the impact knocks the momentum right out of her and they're on the floor.

            "You _s-s-suck_ ," Claire chatters.

            Then Bobby's crashing into the room, stopping short when he sees them. "You _idjits_!"

            It's all sort of a blur after that. Bobby getting Claire up and then down to the Batcave, and Emma stumbling after them, trying to hold onto the wall like she'll rise up into the air again if she doesn't anchor herself somehow, all sick with the memory of that last day with her dad and Cas in the barn, until they're in the Batcave and Bobby's shouting at her to move faster, you idjit, I need that suture _now_! and she doesn't have the luxury to move slow and careful anymore.

            "I-I could cauterize it," she stammers when she gets back into the room where Bobby has Claire out on a table and her sleeve opened up, revealing pale, blood-covered arm. "Do you need me to cauterize it, should I--"

            "If I wanna cauterize it I'll use a Bovie and not a goddamn sixteen-year-old," Bobby says, crabby now instead of panicking, and Emma feels strangely relieved, though she has no idea what a Bovie is. "Gimme those sutures and go get a cola from upstairs, she's gonna need some sugar."

            When Emma gets back down to the cave, Claire's eyes are back open, her mask pulled back from her face, and the gory mess of her arm has been reduced to a neat, four-inch line of stitches that Bobby's tying off as Claire watches. Her eyes roll up to look at Emma, upside-down, before flicking away.

            Emma bites her lip. She knows she fucked up. Not that they probably expected anything different, this being her first time, but--

            "Knock off the sulking," Bobby says. "This is about what you shoulda expected, your first night out."

            Emma's eyes slide back to him, guilty. Only to see that he's not looking at her, he's looking at Claire.

            Her jaw drops. "First time?!"

            Claire's eyes flick up to her. Flick away.

            "This was her first time?" Emma spins on Bobby. Then back to Claire. "You dragged me out on your _first time_?"

            Claire sits up. Swings her legs over the edge of the table and Bobby grunts and thwacks her in the knee. "I'm not an amateur," she says stiffly. Her lips twists. "Unlike _some_ people."

            "Yeah, you know what?" Emma grabs the pair of scissors Bobby used to cut the suture and stabs it into the fleshy web between her thumb and fingers. It bounces off, leaving nothing but a hole in the black glove. "You're not bulletproof like some people either!"

            Claire and Bobby stare at her. The anger drains out of Emma abruptly, leaving behind a sick feeling, because she's used to John and Mary giving her these looks every once in a while, every time they're reminded, in some way or another, that she's not really human. But not from anyone else.

            Not from anyone since her dad.

            Bobby shakes his head. "How 'bout you go get me some triple-A and a bandage outta there?" He thumbs over his shoulder at the medical cart, and Emma lifts her chin and goes to get it.

 

\- o -

 

            Bobby and Claire both tromp upstairs after that, tromp up an assload of stairs carved into the ground rock to a door that leads into the manor. Emma follows them, hanging back, her outfit slick and sweaty between her thighs.

            "I'm hungry," Claire says.

            "I ain't your mom," Bobby says.

            "You're my butler, though."

            "Still don't mean I'm here to cook for you." But Bobby's leading them into the kitchen, a big airy room that looks even bigger because of the reflective surfaces of all the stainless steel appliances.

            "I'm not asking you to cook, just open a can," Claire retorts just as irritably, but as she hip-checks Bobby on her way to the stove, there's fondness in the gesture, in the finger-flick Bobby delivers to her ear.

            Emma hangs back, still, as Claire clatters a pan onto the stove and dumps a can of Progresso that Bobby hands her into it, as Bobby heads back out of the kitchen with a "g'night, kid" to each of them. He ruffles Emma's hair as he goes, and she stiffens, feels immediately caught-out when she does it. But the old man doesn't say anything, just heads into the darkness of the rest of the house.

            When his footsteps have faded from earshot, Claire turns to lean back against the stove. "So."

            Emma turns her hands over, studying the black gloves on her hands. "What."

            "You flew." Claire's still watching her; Emma can feel her eyes. "You done that before?"

            Emma's quiet for a minute. "Floated," she says finally. "I've floated. And some really big jumps, I guess. But not..."

            "Cas had some files on your mom," Claire says after another long moment. "Her abilities, and stuff. You want to look at them?"

            Emma studies her gloves some more. The hurt of her mom leaving is a deeper one than her dad's. The kind that's been around so long that it only hurts when she starts to poke at it. So she tries not to, hides it and cradles it close like a wounded animal favoring a broken limb to keep from jarring it.

            "Maybe not yet," she says.

            They're both quiet for a while. Then Emma glances up. "I think the soup's boiling over."

            "Shit!" Claire jumps away from the stove top. Tomato soup boils over the sides of the pot onto the stovetop. "Shit shit shit, Bobby's going to kill me!"

            Emma starts to laugh. Claire makes a face at her, squeezing a green sponge menacingly over the sink, and when Emma just laughs harder, she tosses a spare one at Emma, hitting her square in the chest. Emma doesn't even feel it through the waterproof material of the Batsuit; the sponge just slides off it to the floor with a weird suctioning sound that has her laughing harder, doubled over.

            "You still snort when you laugh," Claire informs her snidely, grabbing the pot off the stove.

            "You're still a brat," Emma retorts, gasping for breath.

            Claire squeezes her tomato-soup-covered sponge over Emma's head. Emma squawks, Bobby shouts, "What're you two idjits doin' in there?" and the smoke alarm starts to wail.

            Emma laughs until there's tears running down her face alongside the tomato soup.

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dress the Part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853003) by [8sword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword)




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